


I gotta learn how

by WabiSabi



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Author knows they all have the same age BUT, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Neglect, Family Feels, Gen, Good Sibling Luther Hargreeves, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, No Incest, Not Season/Series 02 Compliant, Sibling Love, Sibling Rivalry, Time Travel Fix-It, time travel story not told by time traveler's perspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WabiSabi/pseuds/WabiSabi
Summary: Something goes wrong and Luther is the only one to wake up in the past as a 12-years-old.(or where Luther decides that this time around his loyalty should rest on his real family, learns what being a leader truly is about, and somehow ends up being a good big brother.)
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Luther Hargreeves & The Hargreeves, Luther Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Vanya Hargreeves
Comments: 11
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've never read the comics, therefore I elected to use mostly the TV Show's information. So, they were named before their first mission and Five's disappearance, but for reasons (read: Reginald) they use it sporadically.

What happens is: their dad drops a car over One.

Or at least that's Pogo's explanation after. What they do know is: their afternoon is suddenly interrupted by the sizzle of the speakers, demanding mom’s presence immediately in the backyard. Curiosity flickers like the testing tongue of a lizard for almost everyone except Six and Five (one for cultivating the habit of not minding other people’s business and the other for being too engrossed with a book in the library. I’ll let you guess which is which). However, the situation changes when a Three in tears tells Four that she saw their mom and dad pushing One on a stretcher to the medical wing. And Four, being Four, means that everyone hears about it less than half an hour later.

Accidents are far from unusual and they are more than used to dislocated shoulders and broken bones, so it is common sense to assume that what caused their sister to burst into tears was because something less ordinary happened. Mom and Pogo are with their father in the medical wing, therefore the blood trail demarking the path taken by Reginald coming from the backyard before finding a stretcher is left in full view, and available for the others to check once the story reaches each of them, one by one. Shock is the first universal feeling. Everyone has their version of private training with their dad – in addition to team training and normal classes –, and while it is normal to see Four vomiting his stomach out and Five being carried while passed out or Six wrapping another fissure in his skin, One rarely bears something more serious than a particularly ugly bruise. Super strength combined with durability means simple and straightforward training, with no major gaps to create doubts or experimentation.

Or that was what everyone thought.

Jealousy is… familiar, more so than competitiveness. One's clear advantage in having a power without great mysteries to be unveiled, as well as his declared favoritism, has always been a point of consternation for those who still bother to challenge the rank – but truce is unanimously guaranteed at the first sign of blood and less beautiful feelings are pushed aside by shared concern. When the adults finally reappear after 8 hours, it is not to destruction and chaos expected from six children left unsupervised but to them all waiting quietly for news.

Three is – somehow surprisingly – not the only one to react negatively to the lack of further explanation when all they get is that One is excused from training for the rest of the month and they are not to bother him until then. Two loses his temper to the point of talking back to their dad (and it's punished by not having dinner for the rest of the week). Having been sent to his bedroom, he is later informed by Five popping into his room that, through Pogo’s illegal report, they learned their dad had _improved_ One's training – and had apparently miscalculated their brother's progress.

The following days see Three progressing from tearful concerned to coldly enraged, to the point only Seven can get close to her without suffering any lasting consequences. Four declares on the fourth day that he does not feel One's imminent death, which may or may not be true as far as their brother and his predilection for saying whatever comes to mind go – even with the alcohol booth having won a new lock, whereas sobriety and honesty are not correlated factors in this particular case. As far as attempts to exonerate himself from his sister’s fury go, any other option would have been more applicable, as anyone with a normal sense could have predicted the inevitable backfire of this one.

While Six and Seven try to protect him from fratricide, Five becomes the middle-man. Already in the habit of ignoring their dad’s orders whenever possible, the boy waits no more than a few hours to transport himself to the other side of the medical wing’s locked doors.

When he comes back, it is with an uninterested expression that does not quite manage to mask his ashen complexion. Three is not the only one to get teary-eyed upon hearing confirmation it is as bad as what the phrase ‘ _crushed under a car’_ implies and no, One wasn’t conscious to answer questions. The truce only extends after that and rivalries are put on hold until further notice, which ironically – considering the previous days – finally brings to the house chaos, led mainly by a Two visibly struggling against some new form of guilt and debilitating self-doubt. Perhaps because the last time the two brothers talked, everyone heard him tell One he is only the leader because he is the most obedient, not the best.

That was two days before One was taken to the medical wing.

The tragic timing could not have been worse and the children go through a period of not perfectly round pancakes and regular bacon, instead of something that would make a chef sweat, when their mother ends up distracted – or as distracted as a robot can get – trying to reassure Two of his guiltlessness and their brother's good prognosis.

In a turn of events, it doesn't work.

What _does_ works is when Five returns on the 15th day with the declaration One had woken up.

After a spectacular fight between Three and Two that almost came to blows, the first thing Three does when she returns with Five is to turn to their brother sulking in a corner of the kitchen and say, “He said you're being dumb.”

Two startles. Then bristles. "S-shut up."

"I'm not lying," she huffs, which in itself relieves the tension in the room more because of the act itself than the words per se. Only for it to immediately come back when Three continues, “he said it’s dad’s fault, not yours.”

All eyes turn to Five, who just crosses his arms – almost… uncomfortably, they dare say – and does not contradict what could only be a bald-faced lie from Three.

"Uh oh," Four says.

Seven has her lips between her teeth as she shares a wide-eyed look with Six.

“D-did he get b-brain da-damage?” Two’s question is less sarcastic than any of them would have preferred and while Three glares at him, the way she fidgets over her feet is enough of a tell. After all, they all _also_ witnessed One telling Two their father wouldn't have chosen him if he hadn't known One was the most capable, in the same fight mentioned earlier. Because One may not be the one who starts most of the fights with their brother, but he certainly never hesitates to strike back as hard as he gets.

Two’s sulk turns into a frown and he goes back to staring at his own feet.

“Mom said he’s fine,” Five interjects at last. His tone is nonchalant, which is his default choice when not being prickly about the world and everyone in it. “And he answered all our questions without any sort of problem. So.” He shrugs and throws himself next to Seven, who doesn't complain when the entire couch quakes. “Will you stop your bitching now?”

Four gasps dramatically and slaps hands over Six’s ears. “Language!”

Two glares before storming out angry – but less angry than before, they all agree and decide that for today the matter has ended as well as it could. While Three, Four, and Six (after smacking Four’s hands away) go back to choosing a nail polish color for Four at the dinner table, Seven turns to Five with still worried eyes under her painfully straight bangs and asks, “You really think One is okay?”

Five— hesitates. Bravado is his weapon of choice, but his sister is perhaps the only person in this house with whom he doesn't feel the need to be armed 24/7 – something about the rudeness of brandishing a blade at someone who has never even had a shield, their mother would say. Who would know? He gets himself comfortable to buy time, which involves him lying against the armrest and bringing his feet up on the cushions. Seven shifts away when his sneakers touch her skirt but say nothing about getting them off the couch. "He looked alright," he says at last, putting his hands behind his head. “Apparently, our dear leader is smarter than he let on.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“It’s a compliment.”

“What do you mean?” Six interjects quietly from the dinner table, and Five glances his way to see him holding a nail polish brush over Four's left pinkie, while Three works on the right thumb. Four, with a cuticle stick balanced over his upper lip, also looks at him with wide eyes.

He looks at Three, who doesn’t return it and just gives a little sniff. He takes it as the closest to a blessing to continue he’s going to get.

“When I asked him what happened, he said he suddenly realized there was no way he could _actually_ hold a car being dropped at his head. But by then it was a little too late, so he kind just dropped on his back to avoid having his legs being shoved inside his torso.”

Seven and Four simultaneously get paler around the edges at the same time Three bangs her fist against the table. Six jumps a little. “ _Five!_ ”

“What?”

She glares at him before shoving away from the table, sending everything rattling and Four yelping. She leaves without putting her chair back in place, stomping so hard they can hear her going upstairs. Considering the size of their house, when the sound of a door slamming shut echo muffled yet audibly through the walls, it’s by itself very impressive.

Four sighs and shakes his half-painted nails. “You know, you’re so unnecessary sometimes.”

Five scoffs, refusing to feel anything but annoyance as he throws his feet back to the ground and stands up, brushing imaginary dust from his jacket. “She’s being dramatic. One is _fine_.”

“Is he, though?” Seven murmurs. Her time to put her shoes on the sofa, as she hugs her legs. “Dad gave him a whole month off. That sounds… serious. Considering.”

 _That he is pretty much unbreakable_ , is left unsaid. One doubles as a human shield for them as well as leader, and it was not once they saw him getting smacked in ways that would break them all or kill a regular person. Or Seven. _That is perhaps the crucifix of all this family drama_ , the thought hits Five in the back of his head.

(No one likes to be confronted with the reality that their beliefs were/are wrong.)

 _Whatever_.

“A fractured sternum, five broken ribs, a concussion, and a broken nose.” He holds up a finger to each item he lists and then makes an exaggerated gesture towards them with the other hand as if to emphasize the number. “ _Considering_ dad dropped two tons of metal on top of him, _I think_ he’s spectacularly well.”

* * *

Like clockwork, on the first day of the following month, the house wakes up to the infirmary’s doors finally open. Because it is Number Four and Five who discover this, it is with this news that everyone else is awakened and a frantic search for their brother begins after it is confirmed he indeed is not in his room. And in a very anticlimactic manner, it ends when number Two passes by the kitchen before everyone else – as it’s his habit – and discovers their mother drawing a maple syrup smile on Number One’s pancakes, who is sitting on the table as if nothing ordinary had happened.

Or maybe not so much. When Number Two stomps into the kitchen ready to yell and One turns at the sound of his footsteps, he falters. For a white tape is crossing over his brother's nose, that is no longer a straight line like before, and a plaster peeks from underneath his shirt like a reminder.

But more than that, it’s the way One gives him a surprised look and says, “oh, hi, Diego. Good morning.”

Two stops in his tracks, flabbergasted.

“What did you say?”

One blinks. “Uh...”

Before an answer can be uttered, their mother wishes him a good day too and firmly directs him to sit down across his brother. By the time he has a plate with five pancakes in front of him, the others stumble into the kitchen in different levels of disarrayed and shouting at each other, filling the kitchen with the racket of a heated discussion – at least until One and Two’s presence in the table is registered. A high-pitched “ _One!_ ” who did not come from Three and Four in the back of the crowd unceremoniously pushes everyone else out of the way to run towards their brother with open arms. There is a chorus of six “ _Four!”_ in almost perfect sync, which includes their mother but not One, who jumps to his feet with outstretched hands and an alarmed “ _Klaus!_ ” instead – which is more effective than the joined scream at stopping the boy in his tracks like sinking a foot in the breaks of a car.

He swings back a step with green eyes with smudged eyeliner blinking, hands with half-painted nails still hanging in the air. "Ex-squeeze me?"

One winces and fabulously missing the point, points to his apparently still wrapped ribs. “Broken bones and all. Still not good for, uh, slam-hugs.”

Four slowly wraps his arms around himself and takes another step back. "Right," he murmurs, sounding slightly hesitant. And honestly, Number Two can’t blame him, especially when One winces again, murmurs something under his breath that nobody catches, steps towards Four… and gingerly wraps his arms around him – as if Four had been the one who stayed trapped under a car for twenty minutes until their dad was convinced he really couldn't move. Green eyes almost popping out of their sockets meet Two’s from over their brother’s shoulder and different from ten seconds ago, Four doesn’t seem to be joking anymore, still and awkward under perhaps the most awkward hug in the history of this house.

"Uh ..."

One finally steps back. He smiles at Four’s almost alarmed expression, holding him by the shoulders for a moment. "It’s good to see you, brother."

"R-righty-o."

He pats him on the back and turns to the rest of them. One’s smile melts when he sees their expressions, reading for the first time since that reunion started the level of awkwardness permeating each of them. Or so wrongly assumes Two. However, instead of a defensive ‘ _what’_ , the question that rolls from One’s mouth is:

"Where’s Vanya?"


	2. Chapter 2

A young boy is sitting under an oak tree in the great backyard. Blond, Caucasian. Not particularly attention-grabbing. Not out of impatience or frustration – you are more professional than that – yet your fatal mistake is when you fail to notice the ease with which he follows his brother with his eyes while they talk.

Your target is male, young teens, also Caucasian but dark-haired instead. The first time he disappears from the front of your scope and reappears two meters to the side, it does not surprise you, because you have been provided with enough information to know this mission is a bit more to the left than the usual. The Commission is doing what it can to plug the hole that losing three of its best agents has created in the bureaucratic asphalt, and trying to prevent further problems, of course. Business must prevail. And you are silver tape; the best they could find. _Deadline of two hours, failure will result in termination of the contract._ Fine _._ You’ve worked with tighter schedules. As soon as the target pause, he’s dead.

There. The boy stops and turns to the blond one, saying something, and your trigger fingers tenses—the boy blinks out; the bullet shatters against the floor where he was standing. _Shit_. You look for him again. Finds a shoulder peeking from behind the oak tree, shaking, and have no idea if it belongs to the target. You look for the other boy for confirmation but finds nothing. He’s gone. Every assassin knows what this means. There’s commotion inside the house and you see the flash of someone through the window climbing down the stairs while throwing your gear into a bag. You give a last glance over your shoulder and your target’s eyes seem to meet yours, pinpointing your location with terrifying accuracy.

He blinks out of existence and you run.

(Your fatal mistake was underestimating this mission because it was children.)

(You are less professional than that.)

You leave the roof and climb down to the alley where you parked your car. Two steps in is as far as you go before something slams against your side and you fly, smacking against a dumpster with a loud _clang_. Your vision explodes in white as your body in pain. “I’m sorry about this,” someone says and it sounds honest if a bit sheepish. You look up to see the blond boy from before just as he picks you up and throws you into the dumpster as if you were a garbage bag containing paper. Trash cave in around you. Something nasty falls into your mouth as you’re gasping breathlessly with pain and shock, blinking quickly at the kid as he winces at you. “If you want to live, stay quiet, okay?”

The lid clangs closed before you can answer and then there’s a snap like a blast of voltage.

A different voice is yelling: “Where are they!?”

“Uh—” A tiny squeal. “I-I—the, the alley was empty when I got here?”

A snarl. “Don’t be stupid! Their car is still here.”

“They must have run off on foot—”

“That’s the _dumbest_ idea—”

“You’re just mad that I got here first, aren’t you?”

“— _shut up._ ”

“C’mon, Five. At least no one got hurt.”

“That’s the consolation of idiots and losers.”

“You know, you could _try_ being a little nicer after I just offered to help.”

A little huff and sounds of footsteps echoing in the alley, moving away. Or rather, stomping away. “Well, I don’t need your help.”

“The book is on my desk—”

“I _just_ said I don’t need your help!”

“—so tell me if you find it useful!”

There’s another snap, then a bit of silence, filled by the gloomy noises of a city backstreet. Finally, the lid opens and sunlight gleams around the young boy leaning over the rusted edge, giving you a cautious look that you return without moving. Your head is still ringing. "Look," he starts, rubbing his neck. He appears to be immensely uncomfortable and considering that he knocked you out in an instant when he doesn't even seem to reach your shoulder in height, you go past offended directly to flabbergasted. The boy offers his hand, palm turned up. “You’re the third one already. I told the other two that Five’s plan went wrong. I’m the only one who came back here, and this Five is not _your_ Five, you know, the super-assassin Five. He’s just the 12-year-old Five. He doesn’t know anything about your whole… thing? Business?”

“Commission,” you reply after a beat.

“Right.” He nods politely. “So, just make sure to tell your boss the Five you’re worried about is gone, okay? I think, at least. I don’t really know how this whole time-travel business works. He’s not here anyway.”

“What makes you think they will believe you?”

“Well, it’s the truth. Don’t they have ways to verify that?”

You do your best to keep your skepticism out of your voice. “Sure.”

He pats the side of the dumpster, his smile satisfied. “Alright then. Do you need help getting out?”

“... If you please.”

The process of getting you out of the dumpster and carrying you to your car is as unassuming as when he threw you in there; as if carrying adults twice his height and width was the most ordinary thing he did that day (and considering what you heard and saw, maybe it really is). He opens the door and drops you into the passenger seat without making faces or grunts of effort, and hands you the suitcase with your equipment with the polite air of someone passing plastic bags at the market. "Ah, I almost forgot," he suddenly says, pausing in the middle of closing the door. He glances back briefly before pulling at his jacket sleeve and checking a wristwatch, and his voice is almost distracted when he continues. “Tell your bosses that if they don’t stop trying to kill my brother, I’m gonna have to start being more drastic with their agents.”

You freeze.

The boy seems concerned about something else and doesn't even seem to notice. Or if he notices, he doesn't seem bothered by it. His smile is the polite smile of a 12-year-old boy saying goodbye to an uncle or aunt he doesn't even remember, and doesn't think he'll need to.

“Have a good evening.”

* * *

When the doors open and hurried footsteps halt abruptly, their father doesn't even look up from his plate. Although he raises his fork in a scolding gesture. "You’re late, Number One." The old man’s expression is the same as always: offhand indifference built like old leather stretched over steel bones, and it is only the gesture and the choice of words that let anyone who hears know that someone has made the unforgivable mistake of disappointing Reginald Hargreeves. It is not a rare occurrence as this man's favorite hobby is finding things that do not reach his ambiguous expectations and no one is immune to this judgment – which perhaps constitutes Reginald’s own form of equity.

The blanket of his favoritism doesn't extend very far, it seems.

“Sorry, dad. I was—”

“I have no need for your excuses. Sit down. You’ll wait until everyone is done eating.”

Number Four’s fingers tremble even though he knows he is safe in the anonymity of those who are obeying, and some of the grounded leaves spill on his lap, falling on Number Three’s shoe. His sister doesn't react; she doesn't even look at him. She leans forward slightly as if to focus on the food and crosses her legs and Four takes a deep breath and leaves his hands under the archway that Three’s thigh created on the tablecloth. He looks up when Three then uncrosses her legs and the tablecloth weighs on his wrists, blinking rapidly at the rest of the room. Across the table, Number One is sitting on his usual chair with an empty plate and glass and no one is really meeting his gaze – even though Two has paused with his knife two inches away from the wood for a moment and Six has visibly stopped paying attention to his book. The exception is Seven and Five; Five with elbows on the table and hands crossed in front of his face as is his growing habit, and the book he has been reading is no longer in view as he takes turns looking between his father and their brother.

Something happened.

There are exceptions to this rule – if only because it was not Reginald who instituted it directly – but this is how things work: One and Three spend their respective free time together; Two and Six spend their respective free time by themselves, with Five not belonging to this category just because Seven playing the violin seems to be the only sound he doesn't hate. Four... well, Four is the middle number, belonging to the upper circle because of his power and to the lesser one because he shares their habit of disappointing their father. So, he bounces around, like a ping pong game whose goal is to see which side he will fall on and score permanently. This is not relevant to the previous comment, except to clarify that Four, in general, is the only one who crosses flanks with any degree of frequency; and as the reason behind his surprise that morning. Five's growing dissatisfaction could be heard from inside the house. Anyone who looked out of the windows to the gardens would have discovered One with _him_ during his allocated free time, instead of with Three.

The _why_ is unknown since only one side of the conversation had been audible (if only barely) through Five's snarls and yells. And the end of whatever _that_ was had their father berating Five about damages to the floor half-hour before Grace called for lunch – and One arriving late. Which is a… first.

The latter, not the former.

Seven looks from Five to One and their dad. She seems nervous and Four agrees with the sentiment but for other reasons.

Herr Carlson goes on with his lecture.

He successfully finishes rolling the thin paper despite his sweaty hands and grips it tight – before he can do more than just hesitate, Six leans over his chair as if using it for support and he kicks Four’s ankle hard enough for him to almost knee the table, squeaking in surprise.

“No talking during meal times.”

Six’s eyes don’t move from Anton Chekhov’s “The Bet”.

Four huffs but just stuffs the joint into his pocket while he awkwardly picks up his fork with his non-dominant hand. Without thinking he looks up when he stabs a piece of meat, in time to witness One quickly looking away.

Four purses his lips and tilts his chin nervously back down, doing his best in pretending to eat without actually putting anything in his mouth. Although the sound of dinnerware is still heard over Herr Carlson Lesson Number 23, the silence between each word in the recording seems to hang in the air with a different taste and weight, hesitation conglomerated on the fact that side by side with Two, Number One is also being punished.

Four does not quite recall if there was a ‘last time’ for this particular scenario.

As always, the moment the recording ends, the old man is placing his napkin on the table on the left side of an empty plate and except for those who never had a reason to pick them up, everyone puts down their forks and knives. Reginald stands up, announcing: “training begins at 2h30”, then leaves without a backward glance to confirm his strict policy in dinner etiquette will be followed. Since he knows it will, of course, being the one who built the one responsible for re-enforcing it.

Mother approaches the table, smile in place, and starts collecting the dishes. “Remember to not do anything strenuous, children. Your stomach needs time to work.”

A chorus of 'yes, mom' echoes from around the table and everyone gets up at last. Except for Five, who disappears from his chair while still sitting and re-appears somewhere on the upper floor, yelling for Number Seven who hurries to follow him after handing over her plate and Five’s to their mother. Two gets up abruptly as always and as always, defies the expectations of those who see the irritation gathered in his shoulders by leaning over and picking up the rest of the dishes carefully and helping mom take things to the kitchen, quiet but attentive to her happy chit chat. And while Three gets up to talk to Number One – who relaxes and reveals how tense he had been up to that moment, for some reason or another – Four takes the opportunity to escape through the space between the chairs and stick his foot under Six's heel while his brother is walking, causing him to stumble forward with a squeak.

"Hey!"

Four dances away from his brother's reach when he recovers and tries to grab him, returning his scowl with a tongue out. "That’s for kicking me!"

Six's frown loses its air of irritation and something hesitant takes its place and Four pivots laughing loudly just as he opens his mouth as if to speak, taking advantage of his brother's indecision to run out of the dining room free of a conversation that nobody wants to have.

In the end, Six once more decides to hold his opinions about Four's choices to himself for he does not follow Four to the stairs and Four has brief seconds of respite, believing himself free of judgment he does not particularly care for.

A fool's faith, it seems, as someone _does_ shout for him.

"Klaus, wait!”

The feeling that curdles in his stomach is not the same as when is their dad behind the call, but he stumbles – he blames the unfamiliarity of this summoning, who still manages to lace his stomach and yank him to an involuntary stop by it. This is terrible for Four’s escape plans, as it creates enough time for One to shorten the space between them and grab him by the arm, the difference in size and enthusiasm directed at food noticeable when his brother's hand manages to completely close around his biceps. Four shrinks as turns to the other boy with wide eyes, not knowing what to do with the ringing that the word _'Klaus'_ causes in his ears. "W-what?"

Apparently still ignorant of his abuse of a birthday present none of them had used since the day they got it, One throws a glance over the shoulder then around them; bottom lip between teeth in a display of nervousness Four isn’t used to seeing in the usually confident boy. He steps closer, chin ducking down to whisper in urgency as he sticks his hand towards Four, palm open. “Give it to me.”

His heart lurches into his throat with something close to alarm, as there is not much room for confusion about what this could mean.

He tries anyway. "G-give you what?”

“The, the—I don’t know the name. Weed? Is that what you’re using now?”

The curdling feeling inside his stomach transforms into a vacuum of free fall and Fours darts a panicked look away. His feet shift as if with plans of trying to get rid of his brother's grip, although Four knows it would be an exercise in futility if One disagrees with this plan of action. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He doesn’t mean for his voice to break the way it does, as the spike of volume behind it drives to a crack that sounds like a plea. And it’s a bit wrong. Four doesn’t _fear_ any of his siblings. He isn’t _scared_ of One. It’s just that only Three and Six were meant to know, and he trust One to protect his back in missions but this is _different_ and he didn’t trust Three and Six either, they just _found out_ and promised not to tell because he _can’t_ _drink after dad—_

“Klaus,” One says, _again_ , and jerks his attention like the reins in a horse. Four looks wide-eyed to his brother, just as the taller boy looks again over his shoulder. When One looks back, his expression is frenzied. “Just give it to me. I’ll give it back later, okay?”

Four’s panic falters, the promise catching him from an angle he never even thought of guarding. His mouth falls open yet no words come out.

(One has been acting weird lately, and with the possibility of brain damage having been discarded, he had chosen to imagine his brother had finally decided that a rank is not a personality.)

(He had been just trying not to think about it.)

“Master Four.”

Panic flashes through One's face like lightning, too fast for Four to process on top of the dread punching him at the diaphragm. Then One suddenly launches forward and the little bit of air still left inside Four’s lungs is knocked out when his brother hits their shoulders hard, sending Four spinning and almost into Pogo; their positions reversed with the two facing each other and their eyes meet for an instant. One’s are wide with guilt – and Four’s stomach sinks.

_Was he trying—_

One tears his gaze away and stammers, turning away. “S-sorry, I gotta go.”

“O-one, wait—” But his brother is already disappearing upstairs, Pogo’s admonishment about running on the stairs too late to catch him.

The sudden stinging behind his eyes is accompanied by an exhalation, trembling though short – the feeling that coils in a lump in his throat seem dangerously close to 'betrayal', and his confusion dies.

_Dummy._

“Your father is requesting your presence in his office,” Pogo says and his tone is quiet.

Four jerkily nods, hugging himself. _One is acting weird_ , the thought is like a whisper from someone else while he follows Pogo, _but he is still Number One_. And he is Number Four; neither part of the first three, nor part of the last three.

He ought to remember that.

* * *

“Number Four,” his dad says with the least attention required when his attention remains on his desk and his notebook, pen scratching paper in a constant back and forth like the bow of Seven’s violin when she is practicing.

Pogo is behind him, hands resting on his cane and shoulders slumped forward.

The door is closed.

“Empty your pockets,” dad says and his hand crisply slides across the page to start another line.

Four lets his eyes fall to the wooden panel making the front part of Reginald’s table several meters from where he stands, the width of an entire carpet decorating the space in-between. He tries to remember how to speak. “I—"

“I did not ask for you to talk,” Reginald intercedes, and his tone is dulled by how absent-minded he is for this conversation that seems to be the afterthought to whatever is that he’s recording.

Four feels frozen solid, for all that he’s shaking.

A quiet exhale; not a sigh per se, and Pogo is stepping closer, one warm hand finding his shoulder and squeezing gently before the other so very carefully slides into his jacket pockets, pulling at white lining until its contents spill out:

lint balls and candy papers flutter to the floor noiseless

The scratch-scratch stops. “Shorts,” Reginald orders, and finally his attention seems to have moved from his writing.

Number Four stays stills as Pogo upturns his remaining pockets.

Empty as well.

“Did you give it to someone else, Number Four?”

He jolts his head up at the sharp tone – not angry. Never angry. Reginald Hargreeves doesn’t do _angry_ towards his children. Exasperation. Dissatisfaction. These, yes. Whenever they require his attention outside training or fail to reach his expectations in whatever matter he put beyond them.

“He had just left the table when I called him, sir.”

Almost analytic displeasure glints in his eyes together withan annoyed tilt of his mouth; a humming of consideration not unlike ‘ _two more hours, number four’_. “He didn’t talk to anyone?” his dad asks Pogo while keeping his gaze on Four – and Four is suddenly thinking. About his shoulder. About One shoulder checking him hard enough for him to turn. Too hard. Unnecessarily hard, when One’s training has always been about self-control and never slipping, so much he always treats them like glass.

Pogo’s hand squeezes right over the sore spot. “No, sir.”

And Four’s brain goes _Oh_.


End file.
